Absent Enemies?
by Kevyn Pieters
Summary: A continuation of the late-night conversation between Fr MacAnally and Dr Michael Ryan in episode 3-12 "Amongst Friends", reflecting on the tragedy that had just occurred in Fitzgeralds Bar. Version 2: slightly extended and partially re-written


**Absent Enemies?**

**By Kevin Pieters**

_Early i__n episode 3-12 "Amongst Friends", there is the beginning of a late night conversation between Fr MacAnally and Dr Michael Ryan, reflecting on the tragic events earlier at Fitzgerald's Bar. This story is how I think that conversation developed. I have used the dialogue from Kieran Prendiville's script for the episode, as transcribed by Margaret Pattison, which I gratefully acknowledge. This is version 2, slightly extended and partially re-written. _

Dr Michael Ryan flicked the wipers as a car passing in the opposite direction threw spray onto his windscreen. The heavy rain had stopped and the stars and moon were visible through broken cloud, but a lot of surface water remained on the road. He was driving from the Coroner's Office through Cilldargan to pick up the road for Ballykissangel and home. As the church came into view, he saw Fr MacAnally turn into the presbytery drive. On an impulse, he turned left after him: they could each do with some company tonight, he thought – or rather this morning.

"Good to see you. Come in, Michael, take off your waterproof. Go into the study and I'll get some drinks. Whisky for you?"

Fr Mac hung Michael's wet jacket on the hallstand then went to the kitchen to fetch a new bottle of whisky, some glasses and a jug of water. He took the opportunity to dry his hair, face and neck with the kitchen towel, removing his jacket and clerical collar and unbuttoning his shirt to do so. As he returned to the study, he heard Michael speaking on his mobile phone.

"So, keep an eye out, would you Ambrose?" After a pause, he continued, "No, no, not worried exactly, just ... you know." He listened to Ambrose, then concluded, "Well, thanks, bye." He pressed the terminate button and dropped the phone into his shirt pocket.

Father Mac put the tray on the side table and poured two tumblers of whisky, a full one for himself and a half one for Michael. He diluted Michael's 50:50 with water, as he knew he liked it, and offered it to him. Raising his own glass, in a depressed tone of voice he proposed, "Well, here's to … absent … enemies?"

Michael thought how very care-worn Fr Mac looked. He was tired and the events of the evening had obviously affected him. But how could anyone think of Assumpta Fitzgerald as an enemy? Or perhaps he was alluding to Peter Clifford. He looked Fr Mac directly in the eye, questioning and pitying.

"Not mine."

With a defeated expression on his crumpled face, Fr Mac added bitterly, "She couldn't _stand_ me, Michael."

"Only what you represented."

Fr Mac thought for a moment then added even more bitterly, "She made an exception in my case", before taking another swig of whisky.

Michael looked away, knowing they were on controversial ground: "I think the exception was Father Clifford."

Father Mac continued to look miserably at Dr Ryan, but said nothing more, just swallowed the rest of his whisky, chewing his cheeks as the raw spirit stung his mouth and tongue.

Michael realized that unlike his own glass, Fr Mac's glass had been neat whisky. Seeing Fr Mac pour himself another full glass he became concerned.

"Frank, are you sure that's wise? You'll kill yourself if you keep on like that!"

"Bah! Who'd care about that?"

Fr Mac slumped in his big armchair, and gestured to Michael to help himself to another whisky if he wished (he didn't) and to sit in the other armchair (which he did).

"What's eating you, Frank? This isn't the first tragic death we have had to deal with."

"No, but I can't remember another that has so got under my skin. I failed her … and I've failed him. And between them they have shown how completely inadequate I have been as a priest."

"Surely not. That's the drink talking!"

"No. I've known it for a while. It's the dutch courage that lets me admit it. _In vino veritas_!"

Michael had his own intense feeling of having failed them badly – he hadn't been able to revive her, and he'd let Peter Clifford, who might well become suicidal, go off on his own. But clearly he was not going to get any sympathy and moral support from Fr Mac right now; that would have to wait.

"You're exaggerating, Frank."

Fr Mac glared at Michael and almost shouted, "I am _not_! Did you not see him throw his collar in the river? I've never seen such anguish and despair in a priest: he'd have torn his soul out and thrown that in the river too if he could! I had no idea what to do … it was frightening: it's as well you took charge of him."

Fr Mac hunched himself over the remains of his second glass and stared at the floor. Michael leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and thought back to the journey with Peter in the ambulance that carried Assumpta's body to the mortuary. Peter had said little other than to thank him for trying to revive her and tenderly and tearfully to pray the _Proficere_ and _Subvenite_ over her body. But his body language had been expressive, in turns angry, obstinate, desperately hurt, and finally lost and exhausted. Before the attendant had covered Assumpta's body with a blanket as they drew in to the mortuary, Peter had kissed her on the lips with great tenderness for what Michael knew to be the first time; seeing this had moved him, and recalling it unusually brought a tear to his eye.

Michael opened his eyes to find Fr Mac sitting erect and watching him carefully.

"Michael, I'm sorry for sounding off. It's been a bad night for you too. How are you feeling?"

Michael shrugged and sighed, "A little shaken, I suppose".

"What were you thinking about just then – I could see the tears forming in your eyes?"

"I was remembering the journey in the ambulance."

"I hope that Fr Clifford behaved properly?

"Oh, he did. He prayed over Assumpta's body, and took the trouble to console me. But he is absolutely devastated. With all that he has been through these last few weeks, I'm worried about him."

"Where is he now?"

"On the way home, I hope. He left the mortuary before me, so I'm not absolutely sure. Someone'll have given him a ride home."

"You know he had decided to leave the priesthood for her?"

"I guessed that things were moving that way, but I didn't know for certain that a decision had been made."

"For certain?"

"Well, Brendan told me that when he and some others were setting out the tables for the competition, Fr Clifford walked into the bar clearly bursting to tell her something, and she gave him positively the sweetest smile ever, though he left without speaking, because of the crowd he supposed. But then within minutes she had a phone call and she wore that smile again; Brendan guessed it was Fr Clifford."

"When was that?"

"Just before lunchtime today … I mean yesterday."

"Ah. In the morning he and I had a long talk up at St Jo's – longer I think than we had spoken before without an argument breaking out; the bishop, no less, had been pressing me to make sure that Fr Clifford knew what the implications would be of the various decisions open to him. He told me then that they'd finally declared their love for each other and that they hoped to marry eventually and that probably he would apply for laicization. He phoned me during the afternoon, after he had spoken to her again, to confirm that."

"That figures: during the afternoon, I caught a glimpse of them walking on the river bank just upstream of the bridge. And all evening, she was clearly on cloud nine. The lingering looks between them across the bar were not difficult to see; and yet you seemed to ignore them."

"Well, I was in two minds. In my heart of hearts I didn't think it was the best decision for him. But he never accepted direction from me so what could I do? I had his promise to be discreet, to be chaste in private as well as in public and to not reveal that he would be leaving. My responsibility was to avoid scandal. That was all I could do and I just had to hope for the best. If I challenged his behaviour, that would just have advertised what was going on, … and the mess would be left in my lap. I don't think that either of them wanted any scandalous publicity, though not out of any consideration for me."

"So, what now?"

"Somehow or other I've got to save him from himself."

"Do you think he'll want to resign anyway?"

"I hope I can get him to defer making a decision on that. If he does go, I'm sure to get it in the neck. But, there's nothing in writing yet. And it would be a loss to the Church – he's a good priest, and I told him so. But the bishop is already looking for a new assistant for St Jo's, so we'll be alright whichever way he decides. It's time for him to move on anyway. I don't envy his next parish priest!"

Michael looked unhappy at that prospect. "He'll be much missed if he leaves, both as a priest and as a friend."

"Oh, don't I know it! That much was only too clear when I was covering for him while he was attending his mother's deathbed."

"Why would he not stay?"

"Well, apart from his streak of obstinacy, which he will probably justify in terms of loyalty to his dead girlfriend, having been in love … and I don't deny the reality of their love) … it will have shown him in a very concrete way what he has given up in becoming a celibate. Before that it would have been something abstract and not all that important. Now he may see himself cut off from life and wholeness: some men do need the love of a woman to become a fully rounded person, however strong their spiritual life."

"We're talking about Fr Clifford here?"

"Yes. Who else?"

In fact, Fr Mac was speaking as much about himself, as Michael had half guessed. Fr Mac got out his chair with some difficulty and shuffled across to the drinks tray and poured himself some more whisky and returned to his chair. Before he had a chance to drink it, Michael leaned over with the jug and topped up the glass with water.

"So, how do we help Fr Clifford?"

"For my part, I have to get him to keep up the routine - you know, one foot in front of the other. Fr Collins and I will probably have to help out with some of the bigger Masses and the house visits for a while if they really are too much for him, as if I don't already have enough to do. We can postpone some of the one-to-one instruction and marriage preparation sessions, if he can't face those just yet. But I know there's at least one baptism in the diary; one of us will have to do that. Discipline, routine – that's what he needs. And I am going to have to take him to task on his reluctance to administer the Sacrament of the Sick – that was a clear violation of his duty."

"Couldn't you leave that one for a day or two? There was obviously something agreed between them."

"No, it's central. It's in canon law! You can't have a priest refusing emergency absolution."

"Do go easy on him. He'll be very fragile."

"It's my duty!"

Michael was beginning to despair of there being the remotest chance of Fr Clifford responding positively to that line of treatment.

"What about guiding him spiritually …"

Fr Mac cut in, "That's for his confessor. I'm no counsellor. It's my role as Parish Priest to say what the Church requires. And just for once, he must do as he is told!"

"Lord help us!" thought Michael to himself.

Fr Mac emptied his glass in one long swallow, leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

They lapsed into silence and Fr Mac gradually fell asleep, snoring loudly.

After twenty minutes, Michael roused him and walked him upstairs to the bedroom. He laid him on the bed, loosened his shirt, removed his trousers, rolled him into the recovery position, covered him with the duvet, turned down the light and left him to sleep off the whisky. He found his waterproof jacket, switched off the house lights, closed the front door behind him, and set off home.

It was raining again, though much less heavily than before. As he reached home and parked his car, the sky was already brightening in the north east. It was too late to go bed, so he made a pot of tea. He drank one cup standing in the kitchen, listening to the dawn chorus from the garden. He took his second cup to the breakfast table.

- - - xxx - - -

Michael awoke to the sound and vibration from the mobile phone in his shirt pocket. He yawned as he lifted his head from his folded arms and fumbled for the phone. It was Ambrose Egan.

"Michael Ryan."

"Michael, I've found him."

"That's a relief! Where are you? Will you drive him home?"

"Yeah, but I want to get some hot coffee into him first. He's soaked through. I found him by the Virgin Mary, outside the village. I saw him from the road, wandering in the trees by the grotto."

"Best get him indoors as soon as you can. Can you get a jacket on him … and cover his head if you can?

"I'll do my best. He's so restless – and angry. How are you, Michael?"

"Short of sleep! I called on Fr Mac after I left the Mortuary. I've only had a couple of hours' sleep, head down on the kitchen table …"

Michael broke off and put his left fist to his mouth to suppress a painful belch, and winced at the rising taste of stale whisky at the back of his throat.

" … Sorry, Ambrose. Reflux. I should've gone easier on the whisky. I must take some heartburn pills."

"Well, I'll see you in half an hour or so. At Fr Peter's house?"

"Yeah, see you there. Bye Ambrose."

- - - $$$ - - -

Peter squeezed past Dr. Ryan into the narrow hallway. "Go home, Michael; I'm fine."

Dr. Ryan tipped two pills into his hand, but before he had a chance to swallow them, Peter grabbed his hand: "I said I'm fine".

"No, they're for me". He patted his stomach then swallowed the pills. "You know where I am."

Peter nodded and turned to walk into his living room, but he hesitated and stepped back towards Michael. "Michael, when you delivered her, Assumpta …"

"Yeah?"

"How was she?"

Michael paused, looked thoughtful, then said with a shrug, "Difficult. What else?"

A hint of disappointment registered on Peter's washed-out face, and he looked down, half wanting to prolong the conversation but sensing Michael's reluctance to talk about her.

Michael reached over to Peter and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, then walked towards Ambrose, who was standing by their cars. Peter watched him go then closed the door quietly.


End file.
